Saturday, June 30, 2007

Empty (erica jong)

Emptyby Erica Mann Jong

Every month,the reminder of emptinessso that you are tunedto your bodyharp,strung out on the harpsichordof all your nerves& hammered bloody blueas the crushed fingersof the woman pianistbeaten by her jealous lover.Who is she?Someone I invented for this poem,Someone I imagined.....Never mind,She is me, you~tied to the bodybeat,fainting on the rack of bloodmoving to the metronome~empty, empty, empty.No use.The blood is thickerthan the roots of trees,more persistent than my poetry,more baroque than her bruised music.It gilds the sky about the Virgin's head.It turns the lilies white.Try to run:the blood still follows you.Swear off children,seek a quite roomto practice your preludes & fuges.Under the piano,the blood accumulates;eventually it floats you both away.Give in.Babies cry & music is your life.Darling, you were born to bleedor rock.& the heart breakseither way.